


No Dress Rehearsal

by orphan_account



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Beltane, Coming of Age, F/F, First Time, Gentle Sex, Imagination, Intimacy, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Liberation, Sort Of, love making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Diana is confounded by Anne’s behavior. On the night that signifies the young women of Avonlea’s autonomy and freedom, Anne is despondent. Hurt, Diana leaves the ritual feeling empty.When Anne meets her and tries to make amends, a new path for their relationship is forged.
Relationships: Diana Barry/Anne Shirley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43





	No Dress Rehearsal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [We_Were_Here_Once](https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_Were_Here_Once/gifts).



> So.
> 
> This is a gift for a dear friend and certainly outside the parameters of what I usually write. However, I challenged myself to craft something different and ended up fairly proud of the result. I hope it will be a nice read for everyone who takes an interest.

I.

Anne adorned the Avonlea girls with Beltane. 

That’s the way Diana sees it. 

Every May: the bonfire, rising like a diadem of gold; the embers, exalted in the deep soul of the sky; the ring of them all, dancing together in wild frolics, spinning outward, seemingly into the ether itself. Like stars, spinning and spinning. 

Each year, Diana became heady with spinning, as though with cordial wine. The rushing in her ears would all but drown out Anne’s ceremonial poetry, blessings on their womanhood. Those blessings tripped through the dewy clover, home with her, kissed her forehead, and she fell asleep. She woke, sober again.

Oh, but the next year, she would take up her same drunkenness. Her fine, May-chilled, cotton skirts flying away from her legs, away from her thighs, away, almost off of her, as she whirled and her feet tramped on flowers laid by the fire. The air almost tasted of nectar; she knew because, inside and secret, her tongue rose to the very threshold of her mouth. It was though she was thirsty, trying to taste all this night could be.

She loved this night.

For years and years, she did. Even as the fuel in Anne for this sacred, intimate moment among the girls of Avonlea seemed to be spent, for Diana, the longing grew. If ever she could have put a name to her feelings, — but she was not so clever with words as Anne— she would have told Anne why it vexed her so to see her beloved friend distracted… To recognize that her gaze had sailed far away… leaving Diana, still reeling, still yearning with the dizziness of Beltane.

II.

Diana washes her hands, rubbing her thumb in careful circles on her palms and knuckles. There are still little black veins of stubborn garden dirt, so she patiently continues until she sees them gleam. In her mind are images from Beltane nights of the past: seemingly luminescent arms and legs, gently freckled from their sun-time hours.

In her bedside basin is not only water. Anne read to her, not many weeks ago, of Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, who bathed in milk and honey. Diana is not sure what has gotten into her, but she has not forgotten it. Not since the evening she sat, watching Anne’s lips as she excitedly read from the tome on the bedspread, in the roseate light. Then, this afternoon, she found herself in the pantry, asking Mary Jo for a jar of fresh milk and a honeycomb from the beehouses.

The mixture of milk, honey, and water is soothing and aromatic. Her skin is left silky and glistening. She beams at her work. “Perfect,” she says to herself.

On the bed are cut trillium and sanguinaria, daffodils, sweet grasses, and — she bites a strange smile from overtaking her— lady’s slipper. The lady’s slipper was a surprise,  _ is _ a surprise. She discovered it growing shyly under a low shrub. Alongside these beauties are gathered strands of sage and rosemary, licorice roots, dried slices of lemon, and a skein of colorful yarn.

Humming  _ Reverie _ , all afternoon, she weaves them together, then spins them all with the yarn. “There!” She murmurs. Holding the bundle up to her dimpled cheeks, she inhales the tangle of scents. “What a splendid smudge stick. Anne will be pleased with you, I think.”

When the light outside dwindles, Diana removes her dress, her petticoats, and, most importantly, her corset. She must be free tonight. She  _ will _ be free. In place of the flounces of proper ladyhood, she dons a long, white gown with simple appliqué forms in purple, yellow, and red. Lastly, she lets her sensibly knotted hair fall down her back, and brushes it until it is softer than down. “No coarse bird’s nest tonight,” she promises.

  
  


III.

Anne is aloof.

Diana sees no passage into her thoughts.  _ Usually _ , she muses,  _ I can see into mind for miles. _ Anne has let her know everywhere she goes, every path her fancy traces. Diana is vain with her power to guess Anne’s mind when so many remain bemused by her.  _ We are the closest of friends. Kindred spirits. Bosom companions _ .

And yet… And still, Anne is adrift on the thinnest waves of amber firelight. The other girls are flitting about. Even Prissy, who has returned home from college, dances without modesty, along with the very youngest of them. If she, of all of Avonlea’s unmarried girls, is able to cast off the cares of the wider world… surely shouldn’t Anne be engaged in this experience she herself has brought to them?

Diana walks to Anne, in her shadowed nook, away from the fire. “Anne,” she says, trying to imbue her words with her usual brightness.

Anne’s smile suggests that she is not investing the effort to be glad that Diana is.

Regardless, Diana presses on. “I’ve a surprise…” She leaves out the words  _ for you _ . From her woven straw satchel she withdraws the smudge rod. Grinning a bit devilishly, she displays it to her friend, eagerly awaiting a response. A frail lift of the eyebrows is all she receives.

Her fingers sink into the wilting flower-faces wrapped tightly with yarn. “My mother may well faint when she sees five fewer sanguinaria blossoms to greet her.” Diana giggles. “They are her favorites.”

Anne never touches the smudge rod offered to her. Her eyes sail away again, leaving Diana, again. “They are pretty.” She concedes. “I believe that the blossoms must be dried, however.”

Diana’s expression drains. She pulls the smudge rod back to herself. After licking her lip anxiously, she attempts: “Anne, will you give the May Queen’s blessing tonight?”

“Oh, Diana...” Anne shakes her head. “It’s just not in me tonight.” Then, as though giving a gift: “You may, if you would like.”

She begins to walk away— yet, it feels to Diana, she is falling away, like the delicate caramelization on a custard tart. The tarts she so often grins around during their tea. That grin so unabashedly red, even without the grownup products sold in salons. Those lips that open to her like a bitten strawberry.

Diana hears herself cry, “But I am not the May Queen!”

Without pausing, Anne replies, “Then neither of us is.”

IV.

Ruby Gillis gives some tittering blessing— all focused on the favor of love from any of the young Avonlea men, and “fertile beds” —  _ Fertile beds. The airhead actually said that!  _ Diana tramps through the woods, breaking the felled fingers of maples and birches underfoot.  _ And Anne stood there and allowed her to say it!  _ She chokes on her anger, hardly capable of naming it.

After a passionate march of almost 60 meters, she collapses to her knees, seething. Her knee bones feel the impact harder than she expected and she recalls that she is much less dressed than usual. This stupid, light gown… It will be ruined with chilly mud. The thought gives her some perverse satisfaction. She is angry— much more than she should be.

But, at what? At whom? Angry at Anne seems far too simple, far too convenient an answer.

Why at Anne?

Finally, she huffs and surrenders to her more veiled thoughts.  _ Perhaps the springtime of our lives is truly at an end _ . She thinks.  _ We are shepherded into the harsher seasons. No longer beginning. _

Stubbornly, images of Aunt Josephine’s winter gala enter her mind. What about us? They seem to demand. Would you forget us? Aunt Josephine has spring in winter. With her flower crown sat on her brittle gray hair, is she not made a May Queen?

_ But, that is not my world _ . 

Diana’s world now is Paris. Once it was Avonlea. Alas, not anymore. That’s been proved to her tonight.

Ruby’s stupid speech about beaus and husbands, cradles-full, beds-fertile. _I don’t want to be a fertile thing!_ Diana grinds her teeth, but it doesn’t stop the tears. _I am not done with my youth._ _I have still so much promised to me that has not been given._

_ Ah, but, who promised you anything? _ — Are these her words?—  _ Jerry, perhaps? Charlie Sloan? Promised you freedom? _

_ I—  _ Diana swallows— _ promised myself. _

But— no.

_ Anne promised herself _ .  _ You — Diana, you were only going to watch. _

V.

“Diana?”

From her cold seat on the forest floor, Diana startles. She is made aware how numb her thighs and feet have become. Her face— she can’t imagine what a sight it must be! Hurriedly, she wipes her slickened cheeks; her palms are still so smooth and smell sweet from the milk and honey bath.

Anne steps around her hunched form. Bewilderment draws her face thin. With a breath, she inquires: “What’s the matter? You look awfully forlorn!”

Bitterly, Diana frowns. She is embarrassed further. “It’s nothing for you to agonize over.” She pushes herself from the ground and claps the debris from her fingers. When she looks at Anne again, her friend’s face is sad. Quickly, she adds: “Anyway! You’re the one who’s been so very aloof all evening.”

Anne watches her. Diana twists a finger, waiting. Then, Anne’s eyes drift again.

Diana can’t stand it. “Well,” she says, picking a path homeward in the dark, “you needn’t divulge your thoughts. I know you’ve been burdened greatly with Gilbert’s engagement.” She nearly sucks the words back in— what is she thinking?

Anne dims even more. “Diana?” She asks again. “Have I hurt you with my state of contemplation?”

Still retreating, Diana says, “You are always contemplating, Anne. Your mind is so very full, all the time. Though you usually share it with me.”

The sound of footsteps lets her know that Anne is following. “I fear there are so many,” she says. Her voice is that of a creaking gate. “Oh, Diana! So, so many— and all the time— I never have any relief these days.”

Not yet affected, Diana remarks, “Gilbert has perturbed you more powerfully than I had guessed, it would seem.”

In her mind is the poisonous curse: _Die, Caesar._

Anne lunges forward then and snatches her hand. Diana stops as though caught on a rope. The air has become heavier with chill. She looks at Anne’s face and the fog of her breath meets Diana. So, she peers down at her hand, clasped in Anne’s two.

“Yes,” Anne says. “He has.”

VI.

“Dear Diana,” Anne pleads, her lips very close to Diana’s hand. “Tell me why you are angry with me.” Diana sighs; she cannot help it. Nevertheless, Anne begs. “I have an idea— and it is simply marvelous to think, but”— her breath trembles— “I must be sure. Please!”

Perplexed, Diana stares at her, feeling her anger grow. Why should she be so eager to hear why Diana is mad? What is so marvelous? Nothing has felt marvelous to Diana tonight— nor indeed for a long while. “Really, Anne, I don’t understand you.”

Anne frowns. “But, you do, Diana.”

Diana is silenced by a blush of tears under Anne’s eyes. Suddenly, she is concerned for her sweet Anne. Her brows meet as though to consult each other on what could be wrong. In the air between them is so much Anne is not saying. That  _ she _ is not saying, either.

But— if Anne is not going to speak, Diana does wish she’d let go of her hand!

“My darling Diana,” Anne says, at last, “I have been snared by the changing of seasons.” Anne pauses and Diana marvels at how closely her speech mimics Diana’s own thoughts. “‘The ‘Take Notice’ board all those years ago,” she scoffs, “oh, what a simple trick it plays— yet I fell for it just as if I were still…” She looks down and then confesses: “Still an orphan, longing to be chosen.”

Diana takes her turn to cast down her eyes. True, she will never understand what Anne has experienced. Each time she tries to imagine it— being abandoned, hired out to folks who are only posing as a new family, living without dignity, without stability— it is awful. However, she has a limit, still, to her patience. Anne is no longer an orphan; doesn’t she understand that?

Diana is ashamed of her impatience and intolerance.

“And, well, when Gilbert showed interest,” she says and rolls her eyes, “and promptly retracted it— and, then, Winnie — I— Oh, Diana! And he came to Queens, as you know.” She huffs. “I  have been ever so disquieted and, oh, my nerves like hot pins these two years—“

Unable to hold back any longer, Diana snaps. “Please, Anne! Between Ruby Gillis and you, I-I am nearly floored!”

Anne’s eyes, which were becoming more animated and like herself, blink several times. “Ruby Gillis?”

“How selfish must you be?” Now that she’s unleashed the words, they plummet from her without showing. Anne lets go of her hand. “This is Beltane!” She cries as though it is explanation enough. “I washed in milk and honey! I am  _ unbridled _ ” — Anne compulsively glanced down at her bosom— “for the first time  _ in a year _ and will not have that liberty again! You’ve not even danced tonight.” She huffs, quite weak of breath. 

Anne searches her face, as though watching each tear roll to her chin.

Foolish, she feels so  _ foolish _ . Not to mention petty. And small. Diana sniffs and gives one last challenge. “Were you not to be the ‘bride of adventure’?”

VII.

Diana sees her bare toes. They nearly shimmer in the moonlight. Anne’s, similarly muted in dusk-glow, step very close to hers. Close enough to touch hers— and she just now realizes how cold they are. The warmth of the fire has been left behind. 

“A bride.” Anne murmurs. “I have never seen myself as a bride. Not beyond the scope of my imagination, Diana.” The air hums against their faces; Anne is close. “Until last spring… when I thought Gilbert’s eye was on me.”

Diana bites her tongue. All of the lingering headiness of the night is stolen now. It seems Anne is determined to drain away all that Beltane— no, all that  _ Avonlea _ — ever was to them before they were women.  _ And, I will stand here, like a poor-imitation Cleopatra, and listen, and allow her.  _ She thinks, bitterly.

“My dear Diana, believe me when I say, I have never been so blind.” Anne’s tone gains potency. “All this time I have all but  _ swooned _ for Gilbert’s attention.” She lowers her voice and it sings: “And I have already been a bride.”

Diana finally raises her gaze. She doesn’t understand. Perhaps Anne’s meaning will be clearer on her face. Such a gorgeous, freckled face greets her! Bright and affectionate and untamed. Anne hates her face, but Diana cannot imagine why— it is kissed by all of life’s bounty! And, in kind, the expression there is generous.

“For,” — Anne’s eye twinkles with mischief— “have I not always been pledged to thee, my most perfect Prince Wisteria?”

Could this—?

Anne steps closer still; her knee touches both of Diana’s. Any more and Diana would need to support them both. It is difficult enough for her to keep herself upright.

But, then, Anne sinks to the ground and Diana lowers herself, too, worried suddenly that Anne had fainted. She feels warm fingers caressing her feet. Anne’s hair joins them. “Oh, Prince Wisteria— How longsuffering you are!”

A kiss triggers a sharp inhale in Diana’s breast.

More follow, soft and tickling, as Anne speaks. Diana cannot see her face, only hear her fervid words, and feel her mouth. “Please, my prince…” Her lips open and release a hot exhale. Diana’s throat is tight. “Accept this, my most humble apology…” Still lax, Anne’s lips envelop Diana’s toes, and the contrast of temperature is overwhelming.

She closes her eyes, on the threshold of a drunkenness she has never known before. She knows already, can divine it from the vibrations up her thighs and into her buttocks, that this sensation will become stronger still than the intoxicating smell of embers and the floral ash and the tight reels of dancing while she is soaked in the crisp air. A whimper, either of pleasure or anticipation, escapes.

Either way, the soft sound encourages Anne. Diana feels her kisses slow, her lips remain passionately parted. A slender hand lovingly cups an ankle.

Diana regains her voice. “Anne,” she tries. “Anne, what...?”

Immersed in the game, however, Anne raises her head and smiles beguilingly. Glazed, her eyes held still as she shifted to a new position. She might be possessed, Diana thinks, if she didn’t know better. The only enchantment at work here is Anne’s own imagination— that great power that had so often saved her life and forever changed Diana’s. Then, Diana sees that Anne is at the full height of her knees.

“My prince...” She exhales. Her arms drape over Diana and Diana moves her legs to accommodate her. Instead of leaning into Diana, embracing her as Diana had hoped she would, Anne lies across her lap. “Please do not deny me your merciful forgiveness. I wish only for your eternal joy and the gift of basking in that perfect happiness!”

“Yes,” Diana says, surprising herself a little. “Princess Cordelia… Be mine, forever.” She lays a hesitant hand on Anne’s back, just at the bend of it. Waves of heat break in her gut. Never would she have guessed that the mere touch of another person, so intimately, would reveal them as… somehow fuller, more real, than they’d ever seemed before. Here, she was discovering Anne as though she were new.

“I will be yours, if you only forgive my impertinence, the wantonness of a foolish girl!” Anne cries.

The sound of Diana’s heart overwhelms her ears. She is confused, but  _ excited _ , staggering to keep pace with Anne’s make-believe.

Anne coos. “Restore me, then, Prince, I implore you. Restore me to yourself with a firm hand.”

A breathless moment passes as Anne reaches around her back and tugs at the bottom of her gown. The fold of fabric meets the place where Diana has rested her hand. Diana feels Anne’s hips readjust. They press onto her lap and stars are forming in her sight. In the dimness, Anne’s exposure cannot be fully seen, though Diana barely permits herself to look.

A rush of exultation floods her breast. Could Anne be—? But— She feels a slight weeping between her thighs, very similar to the monthly sensation of womanhood that began when she was still a girl. She still is a girl, in many ways. That is Beltane’s promise to her. Spring. Youth. Not yet set out on her predetermined path. She can still play these games.

What does Anne want her to do?

Anne cants her hips. Diana sees the pouting flesh, gently parted, from the corner of her eye. “So lovely,” she whispers, but even she hardly hears it. She is held rapt, not breathing, only attempting to swallow the building moisture in her throat. When Anne rolls her hips again, Diana is helpless with arousal.

She raises her hand and swats Anne’s buttocks with a sweet  _ snap— _

Anne gasps and arches, her neck completely over her shoulder blades, and Diana can’t resist the sight of her extended neck. At her base, muscles contract forcefully. They both are trembling. Anne murmurs some imploring line. Diana hesitates but gives into the game again, relishing the response of Anne’s supple skin to the impact of her palm. They both moan and Anne’s buttocks jump with each swat.

Diana feels that Anne’s flesh has heated under her hand; shame washes over her. Something is wrong— not with the game, perhaps, but what’s driving her actions doesn’t match them. She removes herself from Anne’s body.

“My prince, my beloved,” Anne continues their play. “Would that I could kiss you as I am restored to your favor, but, alas, my body is such an awkward beast.”

Diana is quiet.

In the heavy atmosphere, Anne becomes stiff; she lifts herself and backs away, searching her friend’s face. “Diana? Did I…?” She asks and Diana knows she must explain her withdrawal.

“I,” she manages to say, “I don’t want this, Anne.”

Fear flashes over Anne’s face in such an unrestrained display that Diana springs forward to clasp her shoulders before she might run away. “I mean— I don’t want,” Diana cries and desperately grasps at her thoughts… “Princess Cordelia. I don’t want  _ pretend _ . At least,” she says, then looks away, laughing softly at herself, “not the first time I ever have you.”

Anne relaxes. When Diana looks at her again, she is grinning. “Oh, Diana! I’m sorry, I had meant to—“

“Don’t apologize.” Then Diana bursts with laughter. “Please! You’ve already been quite penitent!” They giggle together, softly. “I know you wanted to give me an adventure. I think that I started out the night very demanding of it, but…”

Springtime and dizziness and losing her balance… all of it has been so very fun. Yet, she suddenly yearns for permanence, for comfort. Those rigid ambitions that she’s been assigned are still repellent to her, but... But, oh, she _could_ be happy with a mixture of the seasons, though: the thrilling blue of spring, the refining copper of summer, the settling brown freckles of autumn, and milk and honey sweetness of winter.

Anne.

Anne takes her hand and Diana sighs. Anne’s forehead rests at her temple. “I love you, Diana. What do you want? I am sure whatever it is that I will want it, too!”

Diana shakes her head exasperated even while adoring her Anne. “I want to be in a bed with you.” She says and swallows. A shy eye turns up to her friend.

Anne’s happy gaze greets her. “With the quiet of early morning our only clothing?”

“And the twinkle of a candle to show me your lovely form.”

“We could be just together— all our whispers and murmurs and sweet, shared breaths only for us.” Anne’s fingers trace her knuckles, stroke down the delicate bones of her hand. It makes her shudder in delight.

Diana meets her lips. At first, she doesn’t kiss them, but inhales Anne’s breath into herself. Her lungs become thick. She lets the air trickle from her nose. Then, she opens her mouth and takes in Anne’s lower lip, as though drinking from a cup. It is a drink she’ll never tire of— one that both intoxicates and cleanses her.

Anne responds, enthusiastically, as only Anne is able. Only she carries such unbridled life within her, yet releases it so tenderly. Diana wishes she were clever with words, that she could spin— so beautifully!— a poem or confession of love to her dear Anne. She decides that the best she can do is demonstrate what Anne’s spirit has done to her— to come undone and let Anne see how her generosity has evolved Diana.

Anne’s tongue nudges her lip and Diana groans against it. But, then, Anne breaks the seal of their kiss. Diana is not in control of the protesting whine that leaps out. However, Anne stands, urging her to follow, sweeping her up in the excitement again. “Come, my love, my all, my Diana!”

“Where—”

“Let’s go to bed.”

* * *

In bed, Diana truly comes undone. Secreted away, in Anne’s modest bedroom, it’s all exactly what they wanted and so much more. They move as though they’ve forgotten what their bodies are, what they are for, what each part does— they are remade. They’re like newborn animals, uncoordinated and awkward and everything is funny. They giggle. They undress. Longing glances become lingering kisses.

Anne still splashes in her brilliant creativity. “Why, Miss Barry, how bright red are those berries on your breast. May I pluck one?” She says and she— oh! — lightly does pluck at Diana’s left nipple. Diana pantomimes a shout, but it is soundless. “Hmm,” Anne curiously hums. “Stubborn berry. Perhaps this kind must be nipped from the branch.”

This time, it is not soundless.

Diana’s arms are thrown over her eyes as Anne suckles each nipple. Anne’s nose caresses the tingling skin of her collar down to her waist during respites. Then, her tongue encircles the engorged nipple again she kisses them and sucks until Diana is mindlessly thrashing under her. They are truly bright red when she is done. 

But, Anne is not the only one with ideas and Diana is not the only one to cry out that night. Diana straddles Anne, firmly planting them on the bedding. Her palms wander over every plane of her darling’s body, caressing, stimulating— but everything in moderation.

Anne tells her so many lovely words— about herself, about their important friendship, about the love that Anne feels, will always feel, and only for her. Diana draws Anne’s knees up, rolling her onto her shoulders, exposing her completely to Diana’s sight. Speechless, she feels the same exultation, but this time, Anne is exalted, too. As it should be. No separation between them.

For a while, she lets her fingers play with the silky hair crowning Anne’s vulva.  Anne calls for her, though, and they tumble into kissing.  _ It’s alright, I’ll return _ . And she does; she returns to many places. Anne, too, goes over her again and again. Each seeks to know the other in the perfect safety of this time they share. For each has been reborn as a truer incarnation of themselves.

* * *

  
It ends like this.

Anne lies supine on the bed. Somehow, she’s gotten turned around so that her head is at the bed’s foot. Diana again raises her knees, but this time, she leaves Anne’s feet on the quilt and her legs relax to either side. Anne is delightfully cooperative, watching Diana’s actions and trying to predict her plan. Diana teasingly distracts her.

“I wonder if you have noticed the scent of honey on my arms?” Diana baits.

“You always are gorgeously sweet in scent, in sight, in sound—“ Anne squeaks with pleasure as Diana runs her tongue over the vulnerable tissue surrounding her clitoris. Then, her timbre drops and she almost growls as Diana’s tongue enters her, insistently, several times.

Diana smiles at her successful second attempt to distract Anne. As her beloved lies panting and sightless, she lifts her own feet over Anne’s legs and firmly secures them astride her thighs. Anne’s eyes open. Diana slides forward until their most hidden places touch. Neither one moves. Both can feel the other pulsing.

With two fingers, Anne opens herself and Diana does the same, blessing Anne’s cleverness once again. They savor this— this most intimate, remarkable kiss— a kiss unlike they have shared yet tonight. Diana begins to rock, slowly and biting her lip, and Anne eagerly joins her. One hand keeps leverage; the other clasps that of the woman they love. So, they enter summer, together.


End file.
